Tais toi, My Heart
by cowbellgalore
Summary: France/England - Russia asks a very personal question. It seems more than France's history is intertwined with England. "I mean to you, France. What is love to you?"


**Kinkmeme deanon**

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><p>The cup clinks gently against its saucer as France sets it down. He licks the coffee from his mouth, indulges himself and relishes in the lack of formality.<p>

Sitting here, with Russia in the empty cafeteria while everyone else uses their break to do _work_; peaceful, is the only word to describe to. A Nation who can appreciate his culture and understand true beauty is always welcome in his company.

Russia regards him with some amusement, sets his own cup down and continues his story.

"So big sister had to take me home and wash me, it took many hours to get rid of smell… I am glad she kept Belarus out of bathroom." He shudders a little at this.

France titters, a true small laugh, unlike the ones he forces out in less desirable company. He can relax here. Russia is good company. Russia doesn't ask questions.

"Ah I remember having to do the same to England when we were younger. The pig sty was never the same again."

So it surprises him a little, not too much, just slightly so the hand that is reaching for his cup falters.

"I am sorry, could you repeat that?" He's not quite sure if he heard Russia correctly. "Did you ask-?"

There's the beginning of a blush creeping up Russia's neck, spreads rosy and warm up from his scarf. France has never noticed this before, how the pink spreads from his neck to his ears and finally to his face. It's funny, because England's blush always ends at his ears, hot and red.

"Ah, sorry… I was asking… What is love… to France?"

France looks at him, confused; one eye scrunches up, upper lip quirks. He's still not sure if he heard correctly.

"I am terribly sorry, Russia, but-?"

Again Russia cuts him off. His hands move from above the table to his lap, where France presumes they're wringing themselves into knots.

Yet, there's something in his eyes that don't quite match his words or the flushed face.

"You see…" He casts his gaze downwards like a child in trouble and France loses sight of his eyes. He looks so vulnerable and it's the cutest thing, how he buries his nose into his scarf. How many others have seen this contrast? "The other day, someone asked me question, asked what I thought.

"And I did not know how to answer question. So… 'someone' tells me what love is to them. They said, 'love is like big cake with many layers." Russia makes a puzzled expression. "They said, 'there are many layers of cake, but it is still cake'. I do not understand how love is like cake but…

"I thought about it. And I answered. I said, 'love is like field of sunflowers."

Coffee and suspicions completely forgotten, France rests his chin in his hand with a knowing smile. "Sunflowers?"

"Da… sunflowers. I said, 'sunflowers are very beautiful to look at, and they smell nice, but they also nourish. Sunflower seeds and sunflower oil are used in cooking, and sunflower leaves feed cattle, _da_?

"Love nourishes, and love is beautiful… I thought some more, and I realise love is like sunny day, when you want to go outside because you are happy and it is warm."

Russia looks up and his lips tug upwards, the smile not reaching his eyes. "I only know snow."

The expression is horrible; unfeeling, sickeningly lukewarm and there's a slight chill in the air, despite the warm breeze that lifts their hair every now and then. France lifts his chin and reaches over, places his hand on top of Russia's unknotted ones (presumption incorrect) and nods to him. "One day you will find your sunny day."

Russia is smiling again. France recoils at the expression, because it's not the charming smile he was expecting and he knows Russia is capable of. Instead it is creepy and assuming.

"So? What is love to France?"

"Hah," France chuckles, tries to ignore the pressure Russia has begun to exert, "I do not think I can answer that, not after how beautifully you explained it before."

"I mean to you, France. What is love to you?" France is amazed at how easily Russia switches between tones. Now there's sick honey to his voice, sugar sweet and forced; unpleasant. Russia fists a hand against his mouth and thinks hard. "Love to France must be… Ah! Love to France must be wine!"

"Wine?" asks France with intrigue, swallows a little.

"_Da_, wine… Because… there are so many types, France can never choose."

France allows himself a bitter laugh. "I am glad you think so highly of me."

"Ah, I did not mean to offend." There's a pause where neither speaks, Russia waiting for a response and France perhaps a little affronted. When Russia speaks again, his voice is more level; calculating.

"But do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes, I suppose." France thinks. He'll indulge Russia. Russia rarely asks questions and this question is quite interesting. He's never thought about it like this before.

What is love to him? If he had to say what love was like… he'd say it was like-

"Rainy days with soft sunlight."

Russia lifts a curious eyebrow at him and France feels the need to explain himself.

"I do not know if you have ever experienced this, but it is when it drizzles and the sun is shining at the same time, a 'sunshower', as some of our fellow Nations call it." France laughs and calls his words stupid, but Russia urges him on.

"Well, there is a sense of tranquillity, where everything seems to make sense and confuses you all at once, no? Why is it raining and sunny at the same time? Yet it makes complete sense… I remember, our friends all have different folklore related to this. Japan always talks about a fox spirit getting married…

"But then South Korea tells me it is a tiger married to a fox, and Kenya mentioned she believes they are hyenas… oh and Bulgaria believes it is bears. Hah, it is all very confusing, they are all trickster animals but… it is romantic, _non_?"

Russia nods and France's eyes drift upwards. "Actually, I do remember _rosbif_calling it a monkey's birthday? I do not know where he got such an idea from… He always-"

"A 'sunshower' is good for growing mushrooms," Russia inputs with a squinted smile and France laughs with difficulty.

"Ah yes, I suppose… but my folklore is much more, 'upsetting', one could say. _Le diable bat sa femme et marie sa fille_. It means, ah, along the lines of 'the devil is beating his wife and marrying his daughter'… That expression you are making is absolutely horrible, my friend. Other nations have such folklore too, Hungary and Germany… I do not think we all believe it, I certainly do not. But I like the idea of even the lowest of creatures finding love, it is much more hopeful."

(_Clear droplets bounce off leaves, make their way down tree bark and fill t__he hollo__w trunk like a bowl. Soaks the two of them to the bone, tattered clothes torn from pure fun chills their skin. War-torn clothes come later, now it is tunics caught on thorn bushes during their game. They're new, young, inquisitive, hungry for knowledge and annoying in their persistent questioning of the Humans. How does the sun shine through the rain clouds? What is that colour in the sky? Is this what they call miracles?_

Who are you?)

France stops talking.

Russia eyes him, knows he has more to say. "You must have more to say about this,"

"Oh you think so?"

"I do, you are France, after all."

France snorts. "I suppose, but perhaps I am not suited for my job title."

"Surely you are more suited than any of us, _da_? What is love to you, truly?"

"Love is," France sighs, "love is like alcohol- like, like whiskey."

"Whiskey?"

"_Oui_, whiskey. It always seems like a good idea at the time, and it is all good fun in small doses, it tastes good, the burn is good; it takes away previous pains… But when you become dependent, when you _need_it, that is when you hurt yourself, and the morning after is not the most pleasant of things."

"It sounds as if you know the feeling, France."

"I don-," France begins to say, but it's a lie and he doesn't want to lie to Russia, for now. He's indulging Russia; somehow that means he should not withhold his thoughts. "I do," he says and smiles. Even from the other side of the table, Russia can taste its sourness.

To think, the seducer who succeeds never gets what he wants.

"But it's not always like that," France adds as an afterthought and expands, delves deeper into the idea, "sometimes love is like… the sea-"

"The sea?"

"Yes, the sea. It is harsh, unforgiving, it will drag you down into Davy Jones' locker if you are not careful where you can suffer for the rest of eternity- and yet… it is beautiful, serene, calm and my heart beats faster just looking at _la Manche,_- ah, I am boring you."

(_They stare at each other from each side, too stubborn to walk away and too hard-headed to swim, take the boat, hop on the train. It swallows them up, spits them out; salt encrusts on their skin in the beating sun, hearts thrum to the rays. The deck, the docks, wooden and hard, like Dunkirk, like Hastings. But then it is sand, everywhere, waves crashing until it's gentle laps on the shore, 2004, perhaps._

_Absolutely shining with blue._

_But then again, the sea is rather green._)

Russia shakes his head. "No no, go on, my friend."

"Perhaps love is more like… a garden? With lush trees and flowers- and roses, of course roses. They are the epitome of love, _non_?" Russia nods in agreement. "Ah but even the beautiful rose has thorns. I am resorting to clichés, _non_?

"Still, many afternoons I have spent in my garden, or a garden at least." His chest begins to feel a little warm. He thinks of how there is one other garden that could compare to his own in how much time he's spent in it.

Somehow, it's a little scary.

(_Green, green, it has and always will be green. When has it ever not been green? That green like the garden, lit up by sunlight with a slight yellow tinge. Those yellow flowers in the garden between the red roses; flowers which they planted together. The ones he planted before, alone, all dead, the ones nurtured together the only ones remaining, and how wonderful it is. No one else knows, that's alright, just their flowers in the green garden. Their little secret; how exciting, something of their own. It lights up their eyes. Green grows deeper._

_Blue mirrors green._)

"Ah- this is quite complicated… What is love to me? I am not sure I can put it into words, _mon ami_."

"But you are doing so well!"

"Am I?"

"Yes, love to you seems very 'natural', _da_? You compare it to nature often."

"I do?"

(_But love is something unnatural, in a sense, isn't it?_)

"Well I suppose love is much like magic too, then."

"Magic?"

"You think it does not exist?"

"I have had my experiences."

"Then you understand, yes? It is very… mysterious, like love. Hard to understand, _oui_? But you want to know more. It is not part of this world, but we want it, want to understand it and _have_ it. But it is elusive and, we are not even sure such a thing exists. England thinks he knows it all, with his fairies and unicorns and whatnot. Unbelievable, _non_?

"But I shall tell you a secret I hold dear, _mon ami_, I have seen fairies. I have seen fairies and unicorns and dwarves and elves and mysterious apparitions that should not exist and which I should not be able to see!"

France takes a deep breath, and he can feel his chest swell. Alarm bells somewhere in his mind should be ringing, he can hear them softly in the recesses of his mind but not loud enough to stop. "To be able to see such creatures- impossible! That is magic. To be able to see, anything, not just these wonderful things, that is magic. To touch, to taste, to feel- magic. From the most divine madeleines," a sniffling chuckle, "to the burnt-est scones you would not feed a unicorn, pure magic."

(_After the door is slammed closed a second time, he slides down it and waits for the other to hurry up and wake up properly. Magical creatures. Magical creatures, everywhere. Impossible. Yet, he can accept it. He has seen the frightening beauty of the_Vouivre_, and resisted the temptation of her hoarded treasure, let her bath peacefully while she is vulnerable, content to appreciate her beauty._

_Had the door remained opened, he would have appreciated the sight._)

There's something in his voice, it gets softer; words easily fall off his tongue. "He thinks magic is held in dusty old books, infested with insects and whatever nonsense he has come up with in the past. God only knows what goes on in that furry-caterpillar head of his.

"Ah, but books are- a book is magic in itself. I must confess, I have lost myself in them more often than I find myself at war. For words to be able to have that sort of power, to grip and hold you, it is scary, and beautiful, and I can only say it is… 'magical', _non_? Love draws you in, it makes you want more, much like a good novel."

"I understand." Russia pauses and stares at France, unblinking. When he blinks again, France blinks too from surprise.

"_Mon ami_?" he asks with a swallow.

"Nothing, I am just thinking." Russia cocks his head thoughtfully, places his palm under his chin and knits his eyebrows together, perplexed, and France can tell his earlier statement was a lie. "No, I do not understand," and France's suspicious are confirmed.

"Magic, for example- ah, Shakespeare is quite magical."

There's a sudden spark of _knowing_, but then it's gone and Russia looks even more confused. And suddenly France is a little afraid if he confuses him any further, there'll be consequences.

"I mean, Shakespeare. For an Englishman, ah, let me explain. When you ask any person, 'What do you think of when I say 'Shakespeare'?' they will most likely name one of his plays, _non_? But his plays were commercial, for money, his plays reflected the period- oh don't I know. They were made for the commoners, for everyone to hear.

"Love is for everyone to hear. School children, they can not appreciate such a thing, and I can not blame them. You can not force a young mind to read Shakespeare and accept it as fine art. To see it on stage, where Shakespeare intended it to be, that is when anyone can appreciate it. You can not force a young mind to appreciate love, they must experience it."

(_Years later it occurred to him that perhaps, that small little thing who looked like his bones wouldn't support his own weight, so thin and scrawny that he felt a mere tap of his knee would send the poor thing shattering like glass – perhaps, maybe, unbelievably so, something may have begun. To watch him grow up, alone, contribute to his isolation, hurt each other, how startlingly amazing it is to realise. Many Human lifetimes, together, whether they like it or not. To watch fondly as he gushes about his man of literature and use all willpower to keep it showing in his actions, on his face. To watch him rise up. To watch him fall. To rise and fall with him._

_How utterly daunting._)

"Ah but, we know they will be hurt. It is silly, foolish even to tell that to a child but… Shakespeare was a master of comic relief and silliness. Everything in this world is a little silly, yes? Like rock concerts."

Russia takes a sip of his coffee, eyes fixed on France's and they seem to be reading him, as if he were a book. France eyes him back, asks a question with them and sips his own forgotten coffee. It's so cold he nearly chokes and wonders how Russia can stand it.

"Are you alright?"

Francis pats his chest. "Fine."

"What about rock concerts?"

"Rock concerts?"

"_Da_, you said everything in the world is a little silly, like rock concerts- why rock concerts?"

France fights down a laugh, "It seems as if I cannot keep my own words in check. It was a slip of the tongue, nothing more-"

Russia is using his eyes to his advantage again. Funny, how Russia's eyes work. They're intimidating and entirely different from the green ones he's learnt to read.

"Rock concerts… Rock concerts… Pointless. Yes, no point, without a point- ah, much like love, of course. Have you ever been to a rock concert?"

"I have, but not recently."

"Then you know of its pointlessness. Mindless jumping and swaying and head- what do they call it- head-'banging', all in a small space with too many other fools jumping around, and all to a sickening song with no meaning and absolutely no lyrical value. To butcher music, how do these people sleep at night?"

(_But it's not meaningless and sometimes the lyrics hit so frighteningly close to home, he has to take a step back. He replies to any questions with how stupid he finds it, what an atrocity he finds it; songs about silly four letter words. Mind-numbing it makes him want to run away, thoughts of defending himself against the accusations of 'coward' will come later. Animalistic rutting with clothes on; where's the fun in that?_

_Yet he wouldn't mind if it were with him._)

"Mindless love. It makes us fools, jumping around like- like clowns, I must say." France lets out a puff of breath like a weight has come of his chest. "All very foolish; foolishness of an English calibre."

For a moment, France just stares at his half-empty cup with near-frozen coffee.

Coffee, bitter and strong until sweetened with sugar and thickened with cream. Tea can be just as strong and bitter, usually overlooked and underestimated like _him_. But even tea can be sweetened without being spoilt and criticised by certain unnamed thick-browed Nations, given the know-how.

France keeps these thoughts to himself-

-and realises he has just spilt the rest out to Russia. Thoughts which would seem like trivial drivel to the likes of others, but not Russia. He's just given Russia insight into his heart, something he has kept under wraps for a long time.

Russia grins and it puts France ill at ease. His chest seizes up and every fibre of his being wishes, dearly _wishes_he had not said anything, anxiety makes him freeze. The words just seemed to pour out of his mouth; lips set loose by familiarity and comfort, his own wagging tongue his undoing.

In his ribs, his heart thumps heavily, rattles its bony cage and makes him sick to the gut. _Tais-toi _he almost says to it, be quiet or I'll rip you out.

"_Mon ami_, we shall not speak a word of this away from this table, _oui_?"

Russia opens his mouth half way before France interrupts abruptly, sudden unease plastered all over his face, "And if you do not mind me asking, why ask such a question?"

There's panic in his tone and everything weighs heavily in France's mind. Curse everything to hell and back, how could he let all that out? How had this happened in the first place? There's a reputation to be upheld, he can't let his heart or his true honest-to-God, and he nearly chokes at the thought, _emotions _hung out like wet laundry for the world to see and observe.

He is France. The idea of love is beautiful, to be desired and just out of reach. He, France, is not _in love_, and can never be. Why is the thought even entering his mind? This is becoming too real, France is not in love.

Impossible.

"Well," Russia says and his grin just grows wider. His teeth peak out and flash as he speaks and France's jaw nearly drops. "I asked because for past hour, you responded to every story with your own about England. I was simply curious, and your view on 'love' has confirmed my thoughts."

France swallows and narrows his eyes, not wanting to hear the answer but wishing Russia would just say it. "And what are your thoughts?"

"That love for you is 'England'."

"Are you implying-?"

"That you are in love with England."

There is much denial which comes after this simple statement of Russia's, even after they leave the table and frozen coffee and walk away, back to the Nations and _him_; denial which is much more suited to the English.

Who knew the French could execute it so well, too?

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><p>They're walking, back to the room where the others wait to bring things to a close. He mutters under his breath, tries to hide from prying ears.<p>

"I am _not _in love with him, or anyone."

"Have you thought about what you said, my friend? There is only one. You may not have noticed your own words; Shakespeare? You can not convince me otherwise, there is much you said-"

"Russia, you do not understand. It is impossible for this to be-"

"-magic and rock concerts and _green_-"

"I am not in love with England!"

Fortune favours the brave, and France uses this to reason why England chooses that moment to make his presence known.

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><p>(<em>He'll be fine – from the garden grown from scarred hands, beaten and bloodied by each other and everyone else; tended to and cared for by the same. How the sea laps at the edges of his conscience in blues and greens, always greens, the sound of the waves beating like the steady hum of rock that stirs up his heart.<em>

_Songs that quote Shakespeare and turn him into something new but keep it never-changing, reliable in its constant like whiskey and antique books with yellow tea-stained pages containing adventures and magic._

_How poetic._

_How disgusting._

_How considerably charming, that a frog could fall for a rabbit, a rooster for a lion._

_And yet still._

They'll be fine.)

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><p>France presses himself against the door, tries to melt into the sturdy timber and disappear. Running out of the room may not have been the best course of action, but what's done is done.<p>

Russia and England are talking. Or rather, worse, Russia is talking to England.

He wants to throw up, preferably all over Russia's face, or at least his nice clean shoes. Or maybe even that scarf, just-

"Russia," he nearly seethes when the accused slips out of the room and makes for the hallway.

Russia stops, greets him and asks, "How is France?"

How is France? _How is France?_

Angry. Livid. Synonymous with 'wanting to faint dead away' if there ever was such a word to explain how dire this situation is.

"I am annoyed, to be honest."

Russia asks why.

"Why? Because-," and here France explains exactly just why he wants to faint. After promising not to breathe a word of his own just yesterday, Russia has gone and spilt the proverbial beans to the not-proverbial and _very real _England.

"Ah," says Russia with that smile again and it sends shivers down France's spine. "You see, I did not agree to keeping it between us. You asked question about 'why' before I could agree to your request, so it is void, _da_?"

France's mouth hangs open. His own saliva threatens to choke him and he sputters English-like. "H-He will never believe you!"

"I trust you will thank me later, _da_? Okay, _Do svidaniya_."

And then Russia is gone.

And then England is looking at him from the room.

And then-

-France really does faint.

Well no, he doesn't faint, but he swoons slightly and England rolls his eyes at him, such a drama queen.

"Frog," is all he says and stands in front of France, shuffles his feet and doesn't let green and blue meet. There's a strange blush on his face and- ah, France looks up in time to see it reach his ears.

France can read the red. The purple-tinged scarlet from intimidation, because no matter the years, Russia has that sort of effect- and dark pink from embarrassment- and, oh, what's this?

Red just isn't his colour.

His heart hammers in his chest like some idiot banging away at a drum-set, a rhythmic beat that puts him on edge and disturbs the calm seas of his mind.

_Tais-toi._ Oh please, _tais-toi_.

"_Rosbif_," is all France can answer, and they stand in the doorway like two very lost fools.

"You want to… go talk?"

England doesn't know what to do. France doesn't know what to do. They both know the other doesn't know what to do.

Oh _God_ he can not deal with this. To be _asked_ to _go talk_? Not insulted at the mere sight of?

"_Oui_."

Preposterous.

Unheard of.

Dearly welcomed with open heart.

Russia will need new shoes next time he encounters the likes of France, though, a 'thank you' may come later.

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><p>(<em>The green grips him and pulls him in, cements him to the floor and keeps him from running. He does not want to run, wants to pull him into his arms and sleep until the end of time like some stupid lyric. Take him to the Cliffs and watch the sea and reminiscence – 'Remember when we were young?' 'Remember when you hated me?'<em>

_'Remember when I hated you?'_

_- and then smother each other in comedy and tragedy, bring in gnomes to protect their new fortresses of roses, yellow flowers and green bush. Maybe get smashed at a bar while it rain-and-shines outside like magic, and perhaps a rooster and lion could marry then._)

"Idiot," _he _says with panic in his voice that makes his heart swell, "make it shut up!"

(And, green mirrors blue.)

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><p><em>Tais-toi<em>_** – **_**shut up**

_Do svidaniya__ (_До свидания_ )**– '**_**good bye' in Russian with Latin characters. However, there is no set way to Romanise Cyrillic, so it varies.**

'**sunshower' – I'm sure a good majority of you know the Japanese folklore about sunshowers and **_**kitsune**_** getting married, well now you know some others lol. Russians call it **'грибной дождь'** (mushroom room) because it's good weather for growing mushrooms. The actual term 'sunshower' doesn't really have a translation in most languages.**

_Le diable bat sa femme et marie sa fille – _**literally 'the devil is beating his wife and marrying his daughter'. Old fashioned, another variation would be **_le diable bat sa femme pour avoir des crêpes _**which means 'the devil is beating his wife for pancakes'. There seems to be a number of cultures that reference the 'devil beating his wife' during a sunshower, and then there are those that talk about witches or orphans or widows :|a**

_la Manche_** – what the French call the English Channel**

_Vouivre_ – **a dragon-like female creature that hoards treasure in a cave and spreads them out on Palm Sunday (to bask in their glory), though she still keeps them hidden under rocks. Has a ruby (or diamond I think) in the middle of her forehead that allows her to see (in the mortal world) and can only be killed if someone takes it, and she never removes it, only when she bathes.**

**idk**


End file.
